


All That I've Got

by BlushingDragon



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Relationship Study, Revelations Spoilers, Songfic, kind of a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 07:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingDragon/pseuds/BlushingDragon
Summary: Dont care if he's guilty, don't care if he's notHe's good and he's bad and he's all that I've gotOh lord, oh lord, I'm begging you, please,Don't take that sinner from me





	All That I've Got

Blackwall, as a human, was tall, sturdy, and steady on his feet. He looked like the complete physical opposite of Nymphaea, who could've easily mastered that Orlesian dance--ballet--if the thought of embracing Orlesian culture wasn't so offensive to her. A sight often seen in Skyhold’s early days was the weary slight elf propped up against the burly Warden’s shoulder, faint smiles on both of their faces.

Even in the field, he offered himself as a foot- or hand-hold when there were none on a slippery mountainside, to say nothing of Blackwall’s dedication to shielding her from harm in battle. Occasionally, the Inquisitor would have a lengthy discussion about the differences between helping and hindering a dagger-wielder skilled in artifice, but for the most part, Nymph accepted his help and support with a grateful smile and a not insignificant amount of longing for more than smiles and platonic, supportive touches.

Her heart soared when she turned to see him leaning on her balcony, and it took all of her power not to rush him immediately. The first kiss was desperate, each clinging as tight as they could, and Nymph almost lost her hold on her restraint from being so close. As a substitute, she dug her fingers into his gambeson, gleefully refusing to relinquish her prize.

Blackwall’s eyes, although a paler shade of grey than her own, had always held an achingly familiar loneliness, and Nymph promised to be the cure to that sadness, if he'd relieve her own dreadful longing. With dark pupils blown wide, eclipsing the grey, the desire chased the loneliness away.

They sat together in the barn after Adamant, Nymph in his lap and Blackwall’s hands weaving through her hair. The closeness was a balm on her nerves, and for a moment Nymph simply appreciated the rumble of Blackwall’s chest against her back before she realized that he was in fact speaking to her.

“Vhen'an?”

“Your markings--the vallaslin,” he corrected, his fingertips grazing the arch of ink on her cheekbone. “They have some kind of cultural meaning, right?”

“They do. Each pattern is symbolic of one of our Creators. For example, this pattern is that of Dirthamen.” Nymphaea shut her eyes and basked in the gentle way that his fingers traced the blood writing.

“And what does he do, as a god?”

“It's said that he gave knowledge to the first elvhen, and taught us loyalty and dedication to our families. When he and his twin Falon’Din were separated, Dirthamen wandered the Fade and learned it, so he is also regarded as the god of secrets.”

Nymphaea turned until her knees sat snug against Blackwall's thighs, and her gaze locked onto his eyes. “I keep secrets for others, vhen'an. I’d keep your secrets, if you asked me to. Does that bother you?”

For a moment, Blackwall was frozen, and Nymph would've sworn there was fear in his eyes. He pressed his forehead to hers with his eyes shut, and his hands came to rest firmly on her sides.

“Not in the slightest, love.”

* * *

In the Free Marches, rain was warm. It was the laughter of the babbling brook, the flourish of flowers stretching toward the sun.

On the Storm Coast, rain was powerful. It competed with the crash of the waves, ran down grinning faces in a facsimile of tears.

In Val Royeaux, cold rain dripped down Nymphaea’s cheeks as she watched the bravest man she knew do what was right while she cursed his name within an inch of its life.

* * *

A headache pounded against the front of her skull as Nymphaea leaned back in the Inquisitor’s throne. She wanted to shut her eyes against both the hangover and the sight before her, but she refused herself that respite. Her only solace was that Blackwall looked about as miserable as she was.

Blackwall’s hollow cheeks seemed gaunt, and his shoulders slumped uncomfortably with the chains pulling on his wrists. He looked drained, as if the rain had drained the life out of him. She wondered if he had cried as much as she had in the week it took for Leliana to get him back where he belonged.

For the longest minute of her life, they two of them simply stood there, staring at one another. Nymph had asked Josephine not to participate, but she knew that the diplomat was probably listening from the safety of her office. The majority of the Inner Circle was present somewhere in the hall: Vivienne on her balcony, Solas, Cullen, and Varric by the fire, Dorian, Iron Bull, and Sera standing together. The Qunari shut his one eye in what Nymph assumed was a wink. The hazy memories from the night before included a rather therapeutic sob session wrapped up securely in thick grey arms while long fingers cloaked in a warming spell carded through her hair. If she could muster the strength, Nymphaea would smile in thanks to the not-so-secret couple.

Instead, she gazed dolefully at her defeated hero, her false Warden.

“Every one of us have done things we regret. What’s past is in the past, and trying to atone for that proves that you’re a much better man than you think you are,” she spoke softly.

Blackwall’s--Thom’s--head jerked up, almost looked as if he were about to argue, and it sparked anger in her that he could muster the energy to insist on his own worthlessness. However, she let the flame sputter out as she rose from her throne and took one hesitant step forward.

“But you didn't tell me, vhen'an.” Her soft voice grew a sharp undertone. “I promised that your secrets would be mine just as mine were yours. Did that mean nothing to you?”

“It meant everything,” he insisted, “to know that you loved me that much. I just… didn't want to hurt you with it.”

“And now you have.”

Blackwall-- _Thom_ \--flinched at her words. The fear and pain bright in his pale eyes was such a familiar expression, only amplified, that Nymphaea almost felt relieved to see it. He always feared causing her pain: that much had been true from the start, at least.

Nymph let out a gusty sigh, and stepped closer, close enough to press her palm against his cheek.

“How do we fix this, Thom?” she murmured. “I’ll confess, I don’t know how. I want to be angry, but I don’t think that I am. We can’t be the way we were, but I-” Rather than finish, she sighed and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The dais gave her the height to cradle his head in her hands, and she wove her thin fingers through his thick hair.

“My lady-” The words sounded choked as he spoke through the tears.

“Do not doubt me again, vhen'an. I could not bear it,” she said. Those words, murmured against his hair, were only for them. Nymphaea could almost feel her companions straining to hear her verdict from the end of the hall. After pressing a closed-lipped kiss to Thom’s forehead, Nymph raised her head to speak to the others in the hall.

“The Inquisition formally pardons Thom Rainier.”

Several members of her circle shook their heads in disapproval, but Sera whooped for joy loud enough that Nymphaea would swear that Leliana’s ravens were startled. She could feel Thom’s laughter under her hands, and a small smile bloomed across her own face as well.

Nymphaea swiftly untied her lover's wrists, and stepped off of the dais into his embrace. Thom’s arms felt secure around her, and she clung to him as tightly as her own strength would allow. As they stood, wrapped up in each other, Nymph felt as though a piece of her had fit back into place without her even knowing that it was gone.

“I can't promise that I’m an honorable man, but I will not waver from your side again, Nymphaea Lavellan, I swear,” promised Thom.

“I think we can both live with that, vhen’an’ara.”


End file.
